by Karen Ranney
Who would that be? An image came to her then, a day from her childhood. She and her governess, Miss Moore, had gone on a picnic. Miss Moore believed in a variety of learning locations, and her mother hadn’t disapproved. On that day, they’d spread out a blanket beneath a tree. The land had sloped down to a gurgling brook. The passage of time had no doubt painted the scene with perfection. A breeze had blown the glorious perfume of lilacs to her. She could remember laughing, but not the reason.
She’d been ten years old, racing out of childhood with abandon. She wanted to know everything. Why did the bees skip certain flowers? What made the clouds go skidding across the sky? Why had the Egyptians made the pyramids the way they had? Miss Moore answered every eager question, even the ones about India, where her father spent so much of his time.
How strange that she would never feel quite that free again. On his return from India, her father had dismissed Miss Moore, replacing her with a narrow-eyed harridan who reminded her of Ella.
Gone was the appreciation for her childish curiosity. Instead, she’d been stuffed full of information, dates, names, and locations. If she dared to ask a question she only received a frown in return.
Was that child still inside her? Did she have the ability to turn an eager face to the world? She had wanted that for Georgie. She had wanted to show him that there were wonders and marvels to see and share.
Part of her died the day he did. She’d felt as if everything inside had shriveled and burned, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Yet now she had the oddest thought. Could something of that young girl still exist?
She was not acting like herself, or at least the person she’d been for so very long. Ever since that night on the roof, she’d changed. She’d refused, again last night, to take the tonic. Granted, it was harder to fall asleep, but she’d occupied herself with thoughts of Adam.
There was something about the way he’d said his wife’s name. Rebecca. It was spoken in such a gentle tone, almost as if he cradled the word in his hand to mark on its uniqueness.
He hadn’t said how his wife had died and she found herself awash in curiosity. Everything about the man sparked her interest. Why had he gone from being in the army to being a majordomo? He hadn’t liked that comment she made, repeating something that George had often said—that a man only left the army if he was a failure. Adam’s eyes had taken on a flat look and his mouth had thinned.
A proper majordomo, perhaps one without military experience, would have moderated his expression and hidden what he was feeling. Adam hadn’t done that.
A month ago she would never have spent significant time wondering about a male in her employ. Yet a month ago she would never have gone to the Foundling Hospital or the Institute. Nor would she have returned to Marsley House with two new servants in tow.
Yes, she was most definitely changing.
She should go and check to see how the new girls were settling in. While she was at it, she would find Adam and finally get an answer from him about something else. What exactly had he said that night he’d brought her back to her room?
She avoided the bedroom because Ella was going through her wardrobe and sighing in disapproval. Evidently Suzanne had spilled something on a bodice or stained a cuff or dirtied her hem.
She stopped and surveyed herself in the mirror on the wall. She patted her hair into place, practiced a benevolent smile, and straightened the cameo at her neck. Without a word to Ella, she left her suite in search of Adam. How very odd to feel such anticipation.
Her majordomo was flat on his back in the middle of the library.
“Drummond?” she said at the door. “Are you all right?” She flew to his side and stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Your Grace.”
“You haven’t fallen?”
“No, I haven’t. Nor fainted.”
“Then what are you doing on the floor?” she asked.
“Looking at the roof, Your Grace.”
She glanced up. “It’s not a roof,” she said. “It’s a cupola.”
“Very well,” he said agreeably. “The cupola. I’m trying to make out the patterns of the stained glass and I’ve found that it’s much easier to be in this position than bending my neck that far back.”
She looked up at the ceiling and realized that she had rarely noticed the stained glass windows.
“What does it signify?” he asked. “I thought, at first, that the windows were religious in nature, that they depicted a scene from the Bible. After studying them for a while, I don’t think so.”
“All I know is that George had them redone after he returned from India.”
He glanced at her. “Did he?”
She nodded.
“How odd if they’re Hindu.”
“I don’t think it would be any more odd than the Persian Parlor or the Chinese Room or the Egyptian Room.”
“You have a point,” he said. He stretched his hand toward her. “Would you care to join me, Your Grace?”
“I’m the Duchess of Marsley. I don’t get on the floor.”
Sitting up, he smiled at her. “You look horrified at the idea.”
“I am,” she said, fingering the cameo at her throat. “I couldn’t imagine what the staff might say if one of them saw me.”
“Perhaps they’d call you daft,” he said. “Or eccentric. ‘Did you hear what the Duchess of Marsley did? She was seen on the floor of the library staring up at the cupola. Have you ever heard of anything more ludicrous?’”
“Are you a spy, Adam?”
She’d never seen anyone’s face change so quickly. In one instant, there was humor in his eyes and his mouth was curved in a teasing smile. In the next second, his face lost all expression.
He didn’t answer her. He got to his feet, brushed off his trousers and the sleeves of his jacket, paying close attention to his cuffs.
“There isn’t that much dust on the floor, Adam,” she finally said.
She folded her arms in front of her, trying to push down the odd combination of feelings rising up from her stomach. She’d rarely felt anger and fear at the same time, but she did now.
“Are you a spy?” she asked again.
“A spy?”
He was stalling for time, but she’d much prefer if he would just be honest with her.
She nodded. “For my father. Is that why you’re in my household? To report back to him? To tell him when I’ve done anything untoward? Is that why he didn’t immediately order me to dismiss you?”
The idea was new, but it made a great deal of sense.
She didn’t say anything further, only turned and went to stand behind the desk, studying the view from the sparkling windows. This room reminded her too much of George, especially with the portrait of him in his military uniform hanging over the fireplace. He’d been especially proud of that painting. When it had been completed, he’d invited hundreds of people to the house to marvel at how distinguished and handsome he’d looked.
It felt like he was watching her now in that way of his, as if he were half amused by her youthful naïveté and half bored senseless. She’d been too young for him, too unschooled in certain ways.
“I never met your father until the other day,” he said. “I’m not spying for him. Nor am I reporting back to him about anything.”
“If you’re not,” she said, still not turning, “then you would be unusual. Ella is one of his spies.”
“Is she? I knew there was a reason I didn’t like the woman.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and then back at the view.
“Why do you keep her on?” he asked.
It had been easier to simply endure Ella than to change the situation. What else was she simply enduring? She didn’t know, but perhaps it was time she found out.
She turned, finally, to find that he was standing much too close. She should have stepped back, but the window was there. She put her hands on his chest to push him away, but then she looked up
at his face.
His green eyes were much too attractive and much too intent.
He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She didn’t retreat. Nor did she tell him that he mustn’t touch her. She was inviolate, his employer, the Duchess of Marsley. What would anyone say to see him touch her so? What comment would they make if they noticed that his gaze was particularly tender?
She didn’t care.
She shouldn’t smile at her majordomo. Or feel as if a rusty door had been opened in her chest. She shouldn’t spread her fingers wide against the fabric of his jacket, feeling the pounding of his heart as rapid as her own.
When he lowered his head slowly, she measured the seconds in held breaths. He didn’t rush. He didn’t pressure her. Instead, he gave her a chance to protest. Or to caution him. Or to pull away. Or, finally, to act shocked and disapproving.
She should have said something like, You’re dismissed, Adam. Leave this moment and I will have your belongings sent to you.
She remained silent, even as he reached out and cupped her face with both hands now, studying her with intent eyes. Did he wish to remember what she looked like forever? She felt bemused and bathed in confusion.
When his lips touched hers, it was an explosion of feeling. Disbelief banished in the presence of bright sprinkles of delight.
One of the maids had been brushing a threadbare rug from the servants’ quarters one day. Suzanne had seen her at her task in the back garden, noting that the sun’s rays shone through the worn fibers. She felt like that now, as if her soul, pitted and frayed in places, was being illuminated somehow.
His hands cupped her shoulders and then reached around to her back, slowly bringing her forward, closer to him. Her hands joined behind his neck.
Her mouth opened and he inhaled her breath and gave her back some of his. He tasted of coffee and iced cinnamon buns. His lips were warm, tender, and capable of inducing all sorts of strange and fascinating sensations.
Shivers traveled down her body, seemed to wrap around her stomach, and made their way up to her breasts. Her feet tingled. It was difficult to breathe, to concentrate, and to make sense of what she was doing.
Had he stolen her reason completely with a kiss?
She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to become a duchess again. Instead, she wanted to be who she had once been, the young girl about whom she’d wondered earlier.
That Suzanne would have wholeheartedly joined in this kiss. She would’ve stood on tiptoe as she was doing right now, to deepen it. She would have delighted at the fact that her heart was racing and her body felt as if it were warming from the inside out.
Somehow that girl had taken over, pushing the duchess aside.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Reason surfaced gradually, penetrating the haze of pleasure surrounding Adam. What the hell was he doing?
He was jeopardizing everything, his position of majordomo, his assignment, not to mention his honor.
Shame should have suffused him as he stepped back. He should have immediately apologized, explained that it had been a while since he’d kissed a woman. Since he’d even wanted to kiss anyone.
Instead, he shook his head, the gesture substituting for all the words he couldn’t say.
She was a duchess and he was as far from the peerage as anyone could be.
She was going to say the words to dismiss him. He waited for them as the seconds ticked past. Instead, she stood there, her fingers pressed to her lips, looking at him as if she had never before seen a man.
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked.
“Do I need a reason?”
“Why, Adam?”
Very well, if she insisted on the truth, he would give it to her.
“Because you’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “And you’re very kissable.” As if that weren’t bad enough, he decided to give her another layer of honesty. “I’ve thought about doing it for days now.”
If she was going to dismiss him, let it be for cause.
“Have you?”
Her cheeks were turning pink again, a barometer of her emotions. He couldn’t tell, however, if she was feeling embarrassment or anger.
He reached out with both hands, gripped her shoulders, and pulled her gently to him.
“I have,” he said and bent to kiss her again. In for a penny, in for a pound.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t strike him with her fists. She wrapped her arms around his waist as if afraid that he would leave her.
He had no intention of doing that. His thoughts were swirled and jumbled things. All he knew was that he needed to hold her, needed to kiss her, in a way that was elemental. His life depended on it.
Her palms were suddenly flat against his chest and she was pulling away.
He didn’t want to let her go, but he dropped his hands. His breathing was erratic, and every thought was centered not on his assignment or his role or even how he would explain to Mount why he’d been summarily dismissed. He was thinking about the pleasure she’d so effortlessly given him.
The image of her in his bed, her hair tousled, her lips swollen from his kisses, wouldn’t leave him. He wanted to disrobe her slowly. Were her breasts as large as they felt pressed against his chest? He imagined her long and perfectly formed legs wrapped around his waist.
He wanted to feel her, stroke her skin without layers of clothing between them. He wanted her hands all over him, her breath against his throat.
Staring down at the carpet was easier than looking at her. He couldn’t apologize and was as far from being sorry as he was from respecting the Duke of Marsley. He would be able to recall her in his arms for years, if not forever. That startled catch in her breath when he first kissed her would be something he’d always remember. How could he possibly regret kissing Suzanne?
She took another step back and he wanted to tell her that he wasn’t going to ravish her, at least not without her consent. She had nothing to fear from him, never mind that he’d kissed her. That was as far as his efforts of seduction would go. Not because of his assignment. Nor because she would surely dismiss him any second now, but because any relationship they had must be on equal footing. He didn’t want to overwhelm her. He didn’t want to seduce her. He wanted her, but he also hoped she wanted him.
That night in her bedroom, when he’d looked into her eyes and seen only anguish, the need had been born in him to give her comfort. But this, what he felt now, was different. He ached to lose himself in her, quiet all the memories swirling around in his head. For a few moments, the past had disappeared. When he held Suzanne all he’d been conscious of was her, him, and pleasure.
He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, retrieved the brooch, and held out his hand, palm up.
“I found your brooch,” he said. “It’s what you were looking for the other day, wasn’t it?”
His voice didn’t sound like himself, almost as if it were difficult to speak.
She reached out and took the piece of jewelry, holding it between two fingers.
“It’s not a brooch,” she said, sounding different as well. Thankfully, however, there was no evidence of tears in her voice. “It’s a hair clip. You see?” She turned the brooch on its back and opened a clasp. “It slides onto my hair like that.”
“I am somewhat lacking in my knowledge of diamond hairpins, Your Grace.”
How effortlessly he had fallen back into his role. He was her servant. She was his employer. They should not forget such things. In addition, he was someone else. Someone she didn’t know about.
Standing there, however, he felt closer to his real self than he had for quite some time. Had a single kiss rendered him defenseless? Very well, two kisses. And more if she had allowed him. Perhaps it was a good thing that the portrait of her dead husband watched them.
She was staring at him, her eyes steady. Her color was still high. He concentrated on her lips. Those lips made him want to kiss her again.
“Do you want an apolog
y?” he asked. “Shall I confess to my animalistic nature?”
“Do you have one?”
“Around you, evidently,” he said.
“The maids are safe, then?”
“Assuredly, Your Grace.”
“And me, Drummond? Am I safe?”
“Honesty compels me to say that I’m not entirely certain.”
Her eyebrows rose.
She probably thought he was teasing her, but he was being deadly serious.
“Then I should avoid you at all costs,” she said.
“It would probably be the best advice I could give you.”
“So if you came upon me in a parlor, for example, I should scream for assistance? If nothing else, I should ring for a maid?”
“Or perhaps you should have a chaperone at all times, Your Grace.”
“Strictly to prevent you from demonstrating your animalistic nature, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Drummond, you can’t say such things. I am no great beauty. Surely not someone to inspire a man like you to do wicked things.”
“Not wicked, Your Grace. Simply human nature. You have lips I want to kiss. And a form it gives me great pleasure to hold. As to your beauty, if you want compliments, I will endeavor to come up with a few. You should know your own attributes, however.”
“Drummond, you are the most extraordinary man and this has been the most extraordinary conversation.”
He only smiled at her.
“I don’t require an apology,” she said.
“Then any time you would wish to duplicate the experience, Your Grace, I stand ready to serve.”
They exchanged a very long look. He wasn’t entirely certain what she was thinking, but her smile was once more in evidence. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a glint of humor in her eyes.
Good. Marble Marsley needed to be shattered until the woman within was revealed.
She nodded at him, just once, grabbed her skirt with both hands, and, with chin tilted up slightly, left the library.
She’d given him a bad turn when she’d asked if he was a spy. What kind of man set his daughter’s servants to watching her?
